


The Witching Hour

by derryday



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fugue Feast, Ghosts, Magic, Mild Gore, Pre-Canon, Pregnancy, The Month of Void 2016, Week 1: The Marked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 21:05:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryday/pseuds/derryday
Summary: It was the hour of beady glittering eyes watching from the dark, of ancient stone grinding and faint whispery laughter drifting through the air. Be ready, tapped the shutters across the street, jostled by the breeze. Soon, soon, said the rays of the setting sun, glancing blindingly off the windows. Warm evening light coated the city, a rosy film that softened scowling faces and soothed worried thoughts. And somewhere in the crowd, two beating hearts were looking for her.





	

It was the hour of beady glittering eyes watching from the dark, of ancient stone grinding and faint whispery laughter drifting through the air. 

One by one, the lanterns along her street flared to life, lit by a short, rotund man who swayed precariously on his rickety ladder and held anxiously onto his hat to keep it from being snatched away by the evening breeze. The lamps cast a queer yellow light that guttered weakly as it competed with the last rays of the setting sun.

In narrow corners and alleys, dusk congealed in powdery darkness. Shadows billowed from the walls like smoke as though the Void itself were reaching out into the waking world.

Her little street corner echoed with music and chatter. The smell of roses hung heavy in the air, and once in a while a few petals spun down through the breeze and landed in her lap.

The children who taunted her had come by just yesterday, and asked if they might hang up a garland of flowers on her balcony. For once they'd been quite polite, so she'd refrained from writing spells of misfortune into their footprints on her dusty stairs.

There was a stir in the wind, a spicy fragrance that swelled like silent music. Something was coming. 

_Be ready,_ tapped the shutters across the street, jostled by the breeze. _Soon, soon,_ said the rays of the setting sun, glancing blindingly off the windows. Warm evening light coated the city, a rosy film that softened scowling faces and soothed worried thoughts. 

And somewhere in the crowd, two beating hearts were looking for her.

The bracelet she'd made was a simple affair, a thin leather cord with a small silver locket pendant. She fastened it carefully around the girl's wrist. No Overseer, no matter how zealous, would find its magic, hidden away inside the sealed-shut pendant.

It'd been a matter of heated speculation, how the girl had acquired her betrothed's blood. Just last night, the late Lord Moray had leaned over Vera's shoulder as she'd worked, infusing the rust-stained handkerchief with herbs and stuffing scraps of it into the locket.

"D'you reckon she punched him?" he'd asked. Grey threaded liberally through his dark hair, but just then he'd looked like an excited schoolboy who'd stumbled across a juicy secret. "Or maybe she hired some thugs to do it, then swept in and dabbed at his wounds."

"My dear Preston," Vera had replied, carefully adjusting the chalk lines of the small pentacle, "you severely underestimate the subterfuge of young ladies on the prowl for a future husband." And she'd sent him to go sit in the kitchen, because the spell would be ruined if even one drop of his blood spilled onto the table from the red, congealed grin of his slit throat.

To her credit, the girl only flinched a little at the touch of Vera's age-spotted hands. She'd been a shy, colorless thing when she'd knocked on her door for the first time, going as pale as her flaxen hair as she stared around at the cluttered shelves, where herbs dried among chips of whalebone and small dissected critters floated in mason jars, moving just a little when your back was turned.

But when she'd given her name as Gislind, her voice had rung with truth. A rare gift, unasked for: it was dangerous business, giving your birth name to a witch. Of course it could've been simple naivete. Her dear late husband certainly thought so. But Granny Rags, sentimental old fool though she might've been, had felt a quiet courage behind Gislind's wide eyes. 

"Now remember," she said to the girl, as the silver amulet came to rest against her pale wrist. Its magic rippled like a pebble skipping across the still surface of a lake. "Give him this hand to hold. Walk exactly seven steps with him, not one more. If there's any darkness in his soul, if he's not as kind-hearted as he appears to be, the amulet will warn you."

Gislind touched the bracelet. It was unlikely that she could feel the full stir of its power; the spell was simple but unerring, ages-old magic, tried and true. "Warn me?" she repeated, hesitant.

Vera beamed at her, flashing a disconcerting number of yellowed teeth. It was always the same: paying for the services of a witch was one thing. But holding the finished spellwork in their hands unsettled Granny Rags' customers, as if it'd been just a game to them, a silly dare, until her magic touched their skin.

"You will know," Vera said. "There's no telling exactly what it'll do. The pendant might grow hot against your skin, or perhaps your young man will find himself recoiling from you. It's a moody thing, this type of spell, but it won't fail you when it counts."

Gislind looked doubtful. The warm summer night had brought a bit of color to her pale face. Pink flowers were woven into her hair, drooping over her forehead, giving off a faint sweet scent. An old-fashioned skirt swirled around her legs. If Vera didn't look too closely she could almost believe that Gislind was from a time long past, when Granny Rags had been a girl and countless lords and princes had bestowed kisses on her then-unwrinkled hands and spun her through glittering ballrooms to the tune of exquisite music.

"Thank you, Granny," Gislind said. She brushed her fingers over the locket, as though in apology for doubting its potency. And there it was again, that quiet, unobtrusive poise, a dignity that befitted queens and princesses and was altogether out of place on a simple scullery maid. "Truly, thank you. I don't know what I'd do without your advice."

Vera turned her face into the summer wind. Oh yes, those two hearts were coming. The last rays of sunlight whispered it; the cobblestoned streets pitter-pattered with echoes of foreboding. "You would discover your man's true intentions like other girls do," she said. "But I'll grant you that my way is safer."

Gislind rooted around in the pockets of her skirt. Coins tinkled. But Vera forestalled her with a raised palm, and her hand appeared before her like it had once been—milky white skin, unblemished by age and the blisters and calluses from Pandyssia.

A ring sat on her finger, a heavy gold band that Vera had not seen in a while. She had lost it the day she'd washed her husband's blood off her hands in a dark alley, only an hour after cutting his throat. But now it was back, and Vera's fingers were smooth and unwrinkled, and her wedding ring glittered in the light of the sunset.

"Run along, sweet thing," she told Gislind. She turned her hand this way and that, admiring the smoothness of her knuckles. "There's no need for money tonight. Not on the Fugue Feast."

The girl's eyes widened, but only in gratitude. She couldn't see what Vera saw: to her, her fingers would still appear weathered and wrinkled with age. "Thank you!" Gislind said, and jumped to her feet: here, at last, she looked her age, barely nineteen, so young and so in love, and she still believed the world could change for her.

"You're going to put yourself out of business," said Preston. He was leaning his portly frame against the open door, patting his pockets for his pipe. "And the poor girl will have nightmares about being indebted to a witch."

Together they watched Gislind disappear into the throngs of people. Her skirt swung behind her; the delicate scent of her flowers lingered a moment longer. Then she was gone, swallowed up by the moving crowd of revelers.

Vera scoffed, and adjusted the drape of her skirts across her lap. Her hands were back to their weathered husks, the nails trimmed painfully short, with dark rings of herb juice underneath that no longer washed off.

"Just because you have the magical sensitivity of a teaspoon," she said primly, "doesn't mean things are as they appear to be. Can't you feel it, smell it? They are coming."

Preston squinted at the lantern-lit street. "I feel that I need a smoke," he said, decisively. A little blood squeezed out of the deep gash in his neck. He patted his pockets again. "Now where's my damn pipe..."

Flowers hung from every window and balcony, and decorated the lamp posts in thick garlands. Music swam through the streets like driftwood. Street vendors displayed their goods, infusing the air with the sweet smell of burned sugar.

Shadows lengthened and warped as the sun sank lower. The music took on an echoing faraway quality. The lanterns flickered in a breeze that seemed to carry a faint smell of ash. The witching hour was upon them, spreading its soft gauzy wings across the colorful city.

The scent of spice grew stronger. _Soon, soon,_ said the wind, and sure enough, Vera caught sight of long black braided strands through the crowd, followed by an equally dark head of shorter hair. 

Tonight, there was a spring in every step that passed her door. Like moths to a flame, young and old feet alike traipsed to Holger Square, where musicians waited for dancers and bakers handed out free apricot tartlets to even the scruffiest urchin that approached them.

Granny Rags averted her eyes: it unsettled her customers when she looked right at them before they'd even approached her. They shone like gems, the two of them, like candles amidst the many firefly pinpricks of the crowd.

Preston coughed out a first mouthful of smoke. Blood leaked from his throat and spread stickily across his starched collar, like fast-blooming flowers. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, hoarsely. "Vera, is that—?"

She sighed and brushed wilted petals off her lap. Her dear late husband possessed roughly the subtlety of a brick wall. "Announce it to all and sundry, why don't you?" she said. "You'd make a fine footman for the Empress' halls."

The throngs of people parted to let them through. Even on a Fugue night, the woman drew quite a number of stares: she was heavily, unapologetically pregnant. Under her simple dress, her belly bulged tight like a drum, unrestrained by even a maternity corset. 

Whispers ghosted through the air at the brazen display, neighbors gossiping behind their hands. A gaggle of children gawked openly. Their big eyes reflected the sunset's bloodied light.

Behind the lady followed a man. Silence shrouded him like a thick cloak. He swept a glare around the street corner, and all of a sudden, a number of onlookers discovered that they did after all have more riveting matters to talk about. A few of them even had the grace to incline their heads in apology. Someone shooed the children away.

"Good evening," Empress Jessamine Kaldwin said to Vera. She was out of breath from the weight of her unborn child. "Are you Granny—?"

Her eyes widened, and she caught herself just in time. Her cheeks were pink: though she held her head up high, she hadn't been quite immune to the stares. "Do you... live here?" she amended, hastily, blush deepening.

Vera smiled. Oh, what a young thing she was. Tall and straight-backed, determined to heave the ungainly smoke-stained weight of all of Dunwall onto her slim shoulders, but still so _young._ Had she and Preston ever been that young?

"I'm quite aware of what the children call me," she said, with genuine cheer: she might resent the brats for running after her and chanting their mean little songs, but that wasn't the Empress' fault. "Though you are kind to consider an old woman's feelings."

Black hair fell loosely down Jessamine Kaldwin's back, interspersed with small braids. She brushed a strand out of her face, a nervous gesture: the unbound weight of her hair had to feel odd when she spent most of her time in court coiffed impeccably, with every one of the long dark tresses pinned in place.

"I'm— Jasmine," she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar name with a stutter. She was yet unpracticed in the art of deception. But the young Empress jutted out her chin anyway, covering the small slip, a challenge in her gaze. "I've come to request your services."

The man directed a long-suffering look at her back. In the deepening shadows under her balcony, it was easy to send a tendril of inquiry skipping across the cobblestones. The wind helped it along. Vera held her breath, and probed just a little.

Whispers echoed in her ears. The man's mind was sturdy, smooth polished stone where she'd expected craggy cliffs. She glanced off the surface like a pebble skipping across a pond. But she caught a thin thread of exasperated worry: yes, he'd advised the Empress to choose a name that sounded at least a little bit like her real one, but this was _far_ too close—

Gunpowder and steel sat close to his heart: a small pistol, hidden under the vest he wore over his shirt despite the heat. His boots were heavy and too warm, and every step jostled the hidden knives sheathed there. The heart in his breast beat with fierce, devoted protectiveness, thudding like a drum, exuding a mild threat with every pump of the fist-sized muscle. Whoever set out to harm his Empress would cough out their last bloodied breath tonight.

Then Preston was beside her, exhaling smoke against her cheek. His big palm squeezed her shoulder. _"Vera,"_ he said, urgent and commanding.

It was like breaking the surface of a lake, cool air caressing her cheeks as she sucked in a first relieving lungful of air. Vera shook herself, if only for his benefit: she could have held her breath a whole lot longer, but her husband worried so.

"I'm quite alright," she said to him, patting his hand. She brushed the flower petals from her skirt and stood, wincing as her hip popped from the long period of sitting, and addressed the Empress: "Shall we go in, then?"

Jessamine stared at where Vera had to all intents and purposes just patted her own shoulder and spoken to the empty doorway. One palm rested protectively on her belly. The man stepped forward and relayed something to her with a graceful gesture.

The language of hands, Vera realized, though she wasn't proficient in it herself. "It'll be fine," the Empress replied quietly. A look passed between them, silent but crackling with an electric charge, then Jessamine turned and strode determinedly into the dark hallway.

To her credit, she flinched only a little at the eerie surroundings of Vera's living room. She dodged the bundles of drying herbs and flowers that hung from the ceiling. The faded chalk lines and runes that littered the scuffed table were met with a cool, inquisitive look. 

The mason jars made her eyes widen. Of course, Vera saw them every day, the preserved rats and small, featherless birds that floated in their vinegary solutions and seemed to track her with their dead, beady eyes. Jessamine hadn't had the chance to meet any of them properly; she had no way of knowing how useful those little companions could be.

"Please, sit," Vera started to say, but her guest had already lowered herself into the offered chair, with the single-minded determination of one who'd been carrying around an unborn child for months. "What can I do for you?"

Preston perched in the rocking chair by the fireplace, where embers glowed under charred wood. He was squeezing more tobacco into his pipe—overstuffing it, as he was wont to do, and since they had precious little in the way of servants these days Vera would be the one to sweep up the leaves that trickled down. Such a hassle.

"Perhaps she's here to avenge that Emperor whose proposal you turned down," he said now, with that same excited little boy smile. The Void help her, but Vera simply could not be annoyed with him for too long. "I hear royalty isn't too fond of being snubbed."

"Nonsense, dear," Vera said, frowning at the rudeness: he was lucky that she was the only one who could see him. "They're not even related by blood."

Jessamine stared at her. She'd sighed a little in relief as the tension in her lower back abated, but now she sat rigidly, eyes narrowing. "Who are you talking to?"

"Oh, just my husband." Vera gestured over her shoulder towards the mantle. "You must excuse him, he so likes to talk..."

She moved a small stack of books off the table. There was the bowl, her trusty helper: round and thick walled, obviously handmade but not too shabby, considering the fact that the esteemed Lady Moray had never before had the chance to try her hand at pottery. 

"I thought he'd finally be quieter," she explained, "after that neat little cut." She drew her finger across her own throat, smiling. "But he's gotten chattier than ever. Men are so contrary, don't you think?"

Preston gave Vera a shrewd look and jiggled his meaty knee. The rocking chair creaked into reluctant motion, then gained some momentum on the uneven floor boards. It cast high, shifting shadows across the room, the firelight dancing in its reflections on Vera's collection of jars.

Jessamine stared at the chair, which moved without visible cause. Her spirit shivered like a guttering flame. The lazy stir of the Void brushed the edges of her awareness. Just as soon as she shrunk back, Vera felt her rally proudly: the Empress had come here for a reason, disguised as a commoner on a Fugue night, and she would not leave without what she'd come for.

"Perhaps," said Jessamine, diplomatically. She shook her head, forcefully chasing away the strangeness. Vera suppressed a fond smile. Oh, she was magnificent.

She took a deep breath. "As you can see," she said, laying a handing her protruding belly, "I am expecting." Dark blue eyes bored into Vera's, authoritative and searching—not quite unused to caution, but clumsy with it, when normally her every order was heeded. "I... made some inquiries as to how I might find out the child's sex, and I was told you could help me."

Vera gathered her skirts and sat. She entwined her fingers on the tabletop, chalk dust immediately clinging to her skin. Her poor wrinkled hands, weather beaten from Pandyssia and aged beyond their years, spotted and stained beyond what water could rinse away.

"For a price, of course," she said. "These things always have a price."

Jessamine Kaldwin nodded regally. "I am prepared to pay whichever sum you wish."

And there was a story for the ages: gold from the royal coffer would find its way into Granny Rags' gnarled tree-root hands. She chuckled, indulgent. "Oh, but you are young. There are other ways to settle debts."

"Out— of— business," Preston said from his chair in a sing-song voice, but his eyes twinkled with mirth.

"But it is Fugue night," Vera added, rolling her eyes, "and since my _dear_ husband is so worried about my income, I'll settle for coins tonight."

Jessamine's gaze went to the chair again. Vera studied her face, the high aristocratic cheekbones softened by the weight she'd put on throughout her pregnancy. She could see Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin in her and, no matter what Preston said, a hint of that foolish Olaskir boy as well. 

Perhaps it was something about the way they carried themselves: rulers inside and out, they had an air of authoritative dignity around them, even if they showed up on Granny Rags' doorstep dressed in commoners' clothes. This Empress was young yet, raw ore that hadn't yet been smelted into tempered steel.

Vera ran a finger around the rim of her bowl. A crackling hum answered her as it woke up under her touch. "The father should be present for this," she said. "Provided you know who he is."

For a moment Jessamine stared blankly, then her brows drew together in a frown. "Of course I do," she snapped. "Who do you take me for?"

"I take you for a young woman no better or worse than the other girls out there," Vera said slyly. "Any offense is caused purely by your own assumptions, young miss."

Jessamine drew back a little, but kept glaring perfunctorily. "I would've thought," she retorted coolly, "that those assumptions would be even more entrenched in a lady of your advanced age."

Preston cackled. The half-congealed blood at his throat cracked again, fresh red spilling out. The wound looked more garish in the firelight, the overlapping flaps of skin smeared rusty red.

Vera smiled serenely. She was well aware that she looked older than she was, and ragtag teams of mean-spirited children and their chants had thickened her skin. "Perhaps you'd be better advised to speak to my gossiping neighbors then," she said. "But I assume you came looking for a witch."

At the mention of magic, the Empress didn't squash her flaring temper so much as she tucked it away. She glanced quickly around the room as though she expected a horde of Overseers to pop out from behind the kitchen door. "I did," she said, wary.

"Well then." Vera cupped her bowl, felt the deep invisible tremors of magic waiting to be unleashed in the pottery. "Fetch your silent companion. We'll need him."

"Bossing around an Empress," commented Preston, amused. "My lady wife, I'm afraid you are mad as a marsh hare."

Vera procured a handkerchief and wiped out the bowl. Her late husband liked making himself useful by washing out her pots and jars after a finished spell, but he couldn't feel the magic sing the way she did, and she always

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she told him, waving the handkerchief in reprimand. "Don't think I can't see you spilling tobacco all over my rug."

The man came in unprompted. It was like a part of his silence had followed them in and curled inquisitively around Jessamine's ankle under the table, reporting back to its sender that his presence was required. Vera wasn't surprised that he'd heard their conversation from the doorway. Those who could not speak, she knew, often had sharp ears to make up for it.

"This is... um... Carl," Jessamine said. The man winced. "We're... well, we're together," and she set her jaw and leveled a challenging stare at her, as though she expected Granny Rags to protest this scandalous notion.

By the fire, Preston choked, then let out a surprised guffaw. Smoke belched from his mouth and he coughed. The deep, wet cut across his throat flapped grotesquely as his laughter shook his whole body. "Carl!" he repeated, jabbing his pipe in the man's direction. "He's a crow if I've ever seen one! A crow, from the Serkonan language of old!"

Vera rolled her eyes at her husband's antics. Death hadn't equipped him with even an ounce of magic, but sometimes he picked up on small things like this. He was right, of course: names were often close to the surface, and Vera barely had to dip her toes in to feel sleek black feathers, a sharp beak, a heart that beat in steadfast loyalty.

The man came to stand close by his Empress' side. He stared suspiciously at the rocking chair, still moving, and at the wisps of smoke that curled upwards to the ceiling. One hand hovered near his waist, not quite reaching for the pistol under his vest, but close.

Granny Rags could've plucked his name from his dark eyes like an overripe fruit. Instead she smiled at both of them, and inquired, politely, "How far are you along?"

"About twenty-eight weeks," Jessamine said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, but didn't yet blush: Vera had to admire her composure. It wasn't often that a complete stranger asked you to talk about a subject matter as delicate as pregnancy.

She paused, amused. They were both looking at her, expectantly, wondering what this old witch would do with that first bit of information. It didn't seem to occur to either of them to inquire how Vera had known that the voiceless man was the Empress' lover.

"At what time of night or day was the child conceived?" she asked.

Now Jessamine went pink. She exchanged a look with her companion. He signed something to her, a quick flurry of motion. "Probably mid-afternoon," she said, and cleared her throat. "It was the Month of High Cold."

"Ah, young love," Vera said. But she took mercy on them and stood, going over to her chest of drawers to give them a moment of privacy.

It was so much easier, she reflected as she rummaged through the top drawer, when people stuck to night time for their antics. This would need a liberal application of dried hagfish guts. She weighed the little bag in her palm: she still had enough for tonight, but would need to restock in the morning.

She sneaked a glance over her shoulder. _'Carl?'_ the man mouthed, raising his eyebrows at Jessamine.

Vera produced some scissors and herbs from the depths of the drawer. The musky smell of inert magic drifted up from the mess. For a moment she caught just a wisp of the man's memories: hard-packed, sun-scorched earth under knobbly adolescent knees, unforgiving hands clamped around his head and jaw, holding him still as serrated Karnacan steel took his tongue.

"I'm sorry," Jessamine whispered back, contrite. "It was the first name that came to my mind."

When Vera sat back down, the man finally did, too, claiming the mismatched chair at the Empress' side. But Vera saw how he scooted his chair away from the table. One hand hung low, within reach of his left boot. She had no doubt that if she were to lunge across the table, she'd find her own heart's blood splattering across the faded chalk lines.

And they couldn't have that, of course: just like Preston's would've ruined Gislind's bracelet, even a witch's blood had to be applied carefully. "There's no need for that kind of vigilance," Vera informed him. "She won't come to harm by my hands."

The man directed an eloquent skeptical look at the bowl and her herbs. Granny Rags laughed throatily, flashing her yellowed teeth. "Or by my spell," she added.

She opened and closed the scissors just once, showing off their sharpness. The man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I will need a bit of hair from both of you," Vera said.

She reached out, but the man intercepted her. His hand closed around the blades, tight enough that his knuckles whitened. 

He didn't exactly wrench the potential weapon out of her grasp. But he did fix Vera with a hard, searching look, leaning out of her reach before he offered the scissors to Jessamine, handle extended.

For an Empress, she appeared quite unconcerned at surrendering a bit of her hair. She pulled a few strands forward over her shoulder and examined the ends. Then she snipped off a finger-length of black hair, brisk and businesslike.

The hair was very smooth between Vera's wrinkled fingers, soft and well-tended. Miraculously, Preston made no comment about royal vanity. He sucked on his pipe, sending another plume of smoke to the ceiling, and dabbed at his throat in an absent-minded way. 

The silent man reached for the scissors, but Jessamine held them just out of his reach. "Let me?" she asked, but didn't quite wait for his nod, already heaving herself out of the chair to stand over him.

Vera crumbled dried herbs into the bowl. Jessamine was much fussier about his hair than she'd been about her own. She combed her fingers through the strands that framed his face, then tutted and selected one from the back instead, where it wouldn't be so noticeable. The cut she made was slow, and she bit her lip throughout, careful not to snip off too much.

From then on, the matter was quite simple. Vera tied a piece of string around the slim bundle of their combined hair. Jessamine's was jet black, the silent man's a slightly warmer shade of very dark brown. Into the bowl it went, along with the hagfish guts, and the spell was almost complete.

Unlike her wedding ring, she hadn't lost the brooch the day she'd murdered her husband. Now, it was just about the only thing of material worth she had left. 

Preston had given it to her for their first anniversary. Something must've drawn him to it, sitting on a dusty shelf in an antique shop. It could've been the dark, otherworldly glow of amber, or the small dragonfly encased within.

Vera unhooked it from her blouse. For every spell she'd worked in this apartment, the needle had tasted her skin. The dragonfly bore witness to all that she weaved with her magic. It pricked her finger now, and Vera let two drops of blood fall into the bowl.

Jessamine Kaldwin stared at the red that beaded from the small wound. She looked a little pale, but that could've just been the light. A stern line formed between the quiet man's brows. Vera wiped off the needle, then tucked the brooch away. 

"Wouldn't have pegged them for squeamish," Preston said. He dabbed at his throat. "If they only knew, eh?"

"It is fortunate that they don't," she replied, over her shoulder. 

It gave her a moment's pause: what, indeed, would the two of them have said if they'd known the whole of it? If they'd seen, for example, how Vera had made the bowl, mixing the clay with fine whalebone dust and a great deal more of her own blood, until it woke up under her molding hands and sang to her?

She gripped the sides of the bowl. Her wedding ring glinted in the dim light. Once again her fingers appeared to her soft and smooth, flushed rosy around the knuckles with health and youth. 

It wouldn't last, she knew, but it was nice to see. Granny Rags gave the bowl a sharp clockwise quarter-turn.

A flame spewed forth, igniting itself with a muted pop. Embers leaped exuberantly towards the ceiling. Fire crackled between Vera's palms, hot and potent, greedily consuming what she had offered.

Both the Empress and her soldier jerked back from the table. The man dropped one hand out of sight, doubtlessly reaching for a knife. Preston sighed from his place beside the hearth, but said nothing.

Vera felt her lips part in a wide, wicked smile that wasn't entirely her own. She looked at her guests, with eyes turned milky gold by the firelight. Of course she could've used the tinderbox to set her spell alight, but what was the Fugue Feast for if not for showing off?

Smoke drifted up, an unnaturally pure, white cloud. The hagfish guts crackled and popped as they burned. The stench of herbs stung her nose. Vera tilted her head over the bowl until the heat of the fire suffused her cheeks. She closed her eyes.

_A night not too far off: Dunwall's superstitious workers and milkmaids gathering along the river, holding candles in silent earnest vigil for their Empress. The Tower's windows, lit up to ward off the velvety dark, as blood spilled behind the curtains and their heir was born—_

_The silent man's broad hands, bruised down to the bone as Jessamine clutched at them, kneeling on rumpled, stained sheets, her red face a rictus of pain. How would it come to be, Vera wondered, that a soldier was allowed into the royal birthing chamber? The Empress sank against him, panting, as another wave seized her, and his every thought shook with worry and a frantic, fearful joy, and he pressed his lips to her sweat-soaked hair—_

_A thin, stuttering cry, small lungs drawing a wavering breath—_

_Clear, curious eyes that darkened to near-black as those first fragile weeks passed; the trembling sense of wonder that gripped Jessamine every time her daughter latched on to her breast and that made her forget the court's disapproval when she'd refused to hire a wet nurse—_

_The child squalling unhappily in High Overseer Campbell's clumsy hold as he touched her wispy hair, giving the Abbey's blessing—_

_A mobile, spinning gently over an ornately carved crib; her father's voice, humming a wordless tune as he rocked her, and the little mind blurred and quieted and sunk gently into sleep._

Somewhere, something had gone quiet. All was still and motionless, like dust hanging suspended. It took Vera a moment to realize that it was the rocking chair. It had ceased its creaking movement. 

Her eyes felt gritty and dry as she blinked them open, as though she'd stood for a second in a hot, otherworldly breeze. Hands were on her—Preston's big, beloved palms. One had settled firmly on her back and the other cupped her shoulder. 

"There, there," he said, his sonorous voice humming in Vera's chest. He patted her shoulder, comforting, like she'd just woken from a nightmare.

Even sitting down, Vera felt herself sway. She breathed out, and allowed herself to sag against her husband's steady presence, knowing beyond conscious thought that he wouldn't let her fall.

The flames had gone out. Embers gleamed in the bowl, but there was no trace of the hair that'd been burned, no acrid stench remaining. All that was left were a few smears of ash.

Vera's spirit quivered with the echoes: their wild, incredulous joy, sliding into contentment as the weeks passed. The silent man's presence, a steady hum as vast as the Serkonan deserts, solid under the Empress' fierce, starlit brightness.

And the clear, high note of the little life they'd made. So pure and new, like a silver bell, utterly sheltered and safe. 

She sniffled and blinked her eyes clear. She prodded Preston's thigh with her bony elbow. "Don't you bleed on my table, now," she admonished him. But then she added, more softly, "I'm alright, dear. Go sit down."

Preston rose. His touch trailed away, and she felt chilled where his hands had been, so warm and steady even in death. He took a step back, but didn't budge further, standing behind her chair like an attentive butler. 

Vera summoned a tremulous smile. She dabbed at her eyes. "So contrary," she said to Preston, and to the Empress, "Your child is a girl."

Jessamine had been watching her, wary but with mild concern. Now, she gasped. One trembling hand rose: she touched her fingers to her chest, then cupped that hand over her belly. 

"A girl?" she breathed. "Are you—?"

She reached impulsively for her soldier. Who reached back, their fingers tangling, and he winced when Jessamine's grip clamped down on his hand—Vera had to stifle a chuckle; soon, his hands would endure far more rigorous squeezing. 

Both of them stared at her. Vera didn't even need to send a tendril of inquiry to sense what they felt: an impact that shuddered through their bones, entirely expected and yet staggering. As the dust settled, they looked at her with fragile hope, speechless and so very, very young.

"I am sure," Vera said, gently, though something appeared to be stuck in her throat. "A girl with black hair and her father's eyes."

Jessamine let out a small sound. It was halfway between a laugh and a sob. She covered her mouth with her fingers, covering the trembling smile that formed there. Her eyes shone wetly when she looked at her companion, the man whose child slept and grew and dreamed below her heart.

The lump in her throat would not go away. Vera swallowed against it. Then Preston's hand was back on her shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. 

It was only then that Vera realized the floor swayed under her. Gravity tilted in her head, warped with the dizzying rush that the magic had left in her veins. 

"Steady," Preston said right by her ear, a comforting murmur. He radiated warmth all down her side, raising goosebumps on her arms. Vera inhaled his familiar smell of tobacco and sweat and old blood, and something sharper underneath, the expensive cologne he'd worn on that last day of his life. 

Jessamine drew in a shuddering breath. When she let it out, it was the Empress gazing back at her, making a valiant effort to compose herself, like looking through a fogged-up window.

"A girl," she whispered again, more to herself than to either of them. She looked at Vera, stunned wonder in her blue eyes. "I..."

She shook herself. Decorum settled gently around her shoulders, like a fine-woven cloak falling into place. This was a private moment, not meant for the eyes of a strange old woman and the beady glittering gazes of the critters that stared out from their mason jars.

"How much...," she said, abruptly, and cleared her throat to chase the thickness from her voice. "What do I owe you?"

The vertigo was receding, leaving a wistful lassitude in its wake. Vera was tempted to pat her hand and insist that there was no need for such profane matters, not after the charged, vulnerable moment she'd just witnessed. Then again, she had already made Gislind's amulet for free tonight.

"Ten—," she started to say, and Preston coughed loudly. Blood spattered onto her sleeve. The dark fabric of her blouse concealed the stains. "Alright, fifteen coins."

The Empress' fingers, as she counted out the money from an embroidered leather pouch, still shook. It was the one thing that didn't quite fit into her disguise: her dress was simple enough, her hair loose down her back, but she hadn't thought to exchange the pouch for a plainer version.

The silent man looked at it with an absent-minded frown forming between his eyebrows. Vera had no doubt that, back at the Tower, a lecture about disguises awaited the Empress—an entirely silent one, delivered in the language of gestures, but persistent nonetheless.

And now he'd noticed her look. His focus honed in on her like a rifleman taking aim. He leveled a challenging stare across the table. But Vera only said, "Thank you, young miss," and accepted the Empress' money.

Though they were from the royal coffers, the coins didn't feel different from any other payment. Vera's slender, unwrinkled hands packed them away into her pocket. The coins clinked against her wedding ring. In this, it seemed that royalty and commoners were one and the same.

Outside, the sun had gone down. Between the rooftops and chimneys of the Distillery District, the sky was still streaked with dark pink mingling with indigo. Now that the ink-dark sky was dotted with stars, more people had been drawn out of their homes by the encroaching night. 

In the lantern-lit yellowish darkness, sound seemed to carry further: the music from Holger Square was more distinct, a lively tune that got even the old bones in Vera's feet creaking with remembered steps. Chatter and laughter drifted across the street, loud enough to separate into discernible voices: young children, tugging impatiently at their mothers' hands, gruff male voices and tinkling young girls' laughter.

On her doorstep, the Empress surveyed the hallway behind Vera. She fidgeted with her dress, her eyes insistent like she'd forgotten something at the table. For a moment Vera wondered if she could actually see Preston, leaning against the narrow shelves that bracketed the hallway.

Jessamine cleared her throat. "Can... do you need help?" she asked, lowering her voice secretively. "I have more money, I could..."

Generosity, sprouted like a young weed from the place of overturned earth where the revelation of her child's gender had landed with joyous upheaval. It took Vera a moment to realize the creaking genuinely amused laughter came from her own throat. 

"No, dearie," she said, and patted her shoulder, lightly, just once. A strong, deep current of blossoming life flowed through her from the contact, like an ember catching fire. "I have everything I need right here."

Jessamine looked doubtful, her gaze flickering across Granny Rags and her abode: her old, faded clothes, the fraying seams of her skirt, the peeling wallpaper in the corridor behind her. The gesture was not unwelcome, precisely—but the Empress was lucky that Vera was not among Dunwall's more prideful denizens. 

The man plucked gently at her sleeve. His eyes hadn't grown damp at Vera's table, but Vera could feel the tension in him, the tremors that raced past under the solid surface of his consciousness.

"Alright, we'd best be going," Jessamine said, with a passable imitation of her earlier briskness. "Thank you, again." She hesitated, then inclined her head—not quite a bow, and Vera wouldn't have expected even that much. "Have a good night."

"And you," Vera said, and the two of them walked out of the shadow cast by her balcony. When they were a few paces away, she finished softly, "...your majesty."

For a moment, Vera lost sight of the two of them in the crowd. A string of teenaged girls blocked her view, all giggling and holding hands. The distant music changed, became lively and intoxicating like sparkling wine. A few couples whirled past, erupting into spontaneous dance.

On the far side of the street, it was the voiceless man who reached out first. Jessamine went readily into his embrace, and they stood together in the yellow lamp light, their dark heads of hair close together.

He held her close with hands that shook, hunching protectively around the bulk of her vulnerable belly. His breath came in unsteady bursts, and Jessamine squeezed him harder, soothing her hands down his back.

The line of her spine loosened, and she melted into him—there was no court observing her every move now, no one to turn up their aristocratic noses at how she pressed her face to his shoulder, clinging.

"A girl," she whispered, voice thick. A helpful gust of wind carried the words right to Vera's ear. Jessamine drew back and cupped his face in her hands and smiled tremulously at the father of her child. "A daughter. Oh, _Corvo."_

And she kissed him, right there under the lantern. It was not a chaste kiss. Jessamine's palms cradled his jaw and drew him down, and he yielded readily. For a moment the man's eyes fluttered shut as he let himself sink into his Empress' tender, possessive touch. His lashes glittered wetly.

Five seconds, six, then he withdrew. He pressed his lips to the side of her nose, her forehead. His eyes already roamed the street, lingering on tipsy ruffians and their meandering paths.

Jessamine huffed out a small laugh. She stepped back from him, sniffling a little, but her eyes were clear. "You're right," she said, as though he'd protested out loud. "We should go back."

One black eyebrow climbed up his forehead: Vera got the sense that it was quite rare for Jessamine to be the one to put an end to these excursions into the city. The man's eyes softened. He reached out and squeezed her arm, gently, then trailed his fingers down the sleeve of her dress til he reached her hand.

Vera all but felt the breath Jessamine Kaldwin took, air flowing reluctantly into a chest constricted with emotion and the living, shifting pressure of the child growing inside her. He held on to her fingers, his callused thumb smoothing a lingering caress over the back of her hand, and his gaze was like a physical touch of its own, still raw with emotion, intent and earnest.

He offered her his arm, and Jessamine tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. They ducked past the lamp post together, heads tilting towards each other, and from a distance they looked like any other couple who was out and about on the Fugue Feast, engaged deeply in some silent conversation.

The last fragile, shining thread snapped. It'd stretched between them and Vera's doorway, affording her a lingering sense of her extraordinary guests. Now it sprung back, sticky and cool on the surface of her mind before it sunk away into the depths.

A burst of giggles, a familiar flash of blonde hair so light it appeared almost colorless: suddenly, Vera spotted Gislind in the crowd. Her crown of flowers had been knocked askew and was slipping almost down her forehead. 

She spun past in the arms of a man who held her carefully, stumbling over his own feet in an attempt not to step on hers in the impromptu dance. He gazed upon her with a small, dazed smile as though he couldn't quite believe his luck.

On Gislind's wrist, the bracelet glittered, Vera's amulet catching and reflecting the street lights. She shook her head slightly to adjust the flowers, then laughed and blushed when they slipped further. A wave of her radiant happiness lapped at the edge of Vera's awareness.

When Vera looked at the lantern again, the Empress and her mute soldier were gone, lost in the crowd.

A broad hand touched her elbow. Then Preston was beside her, solid and strong, steadying her with an arm around her waist. He looked out at the dancers, the colorful whirling skirts and the flower petals that spun through the air and doused the street in their summery scents.

His waistcoat stretched perilously over his belly as he heaved a deep, wistful sigh. "We were magnificent, were we not?"

"Yes," Vera whispered. A small ache bloomed in her chest.

Then Preston suddenly stood before her, tall and decisive. The summer wind ruffled his hair. The balcony's shadow fell over him, dark enough to shroud his wound in darkness. 

"Well then!" he said, with abrupt cheerfulness, and rocked back on his heels. "I reckon it's time to show these youngsters how it's done." And he held out a hand to her, waiting.

Vera gaped at him. He couldn't have surprised her more if he'd doused her with cold water to shake her out of her nostalgia. Dead and buried for thirteen years, and Lord Preston Moray's esteemed moods still made those abrupt about-turns—serious one moment, tipping into youthful exuberance the next.

She laughed, incredulous. "I'm sure my neighbors will be delighted," she said, ignoring the flutter she felt in her chest, "to see me prance about with what appears to be a partner made of thin air."

Preston shrugged that away. His eyes gleamed with a smiling challenge. "They already think you're mad."

Vera folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not as young as I used to be," she pointed out.

Preston didn't budge. His hand remained outstretched. "Neither am I," he said—gentler, now, less like a schoolboy about to embark on some grand adventure, and more like... a husband, coaxing and warm, asking with that open palm for her trust. 

His own wife's hands had tilted his head forward, lowering the protective ridge of cartilage across his trachea, and carved a deep bloody smile into his throat. And yet his eyes were still the same, crinkling at the corners with an affection so deep that it ached to behold.

That smile that she loved so dearly—it chased the thoughts right out of Vera's head. She found herself taking a step, just one, out into the street. Her heart, aged beyond its years though it might've been, thumped unsteadily against her ribs, a bird awakening and testing its wings.

She cast about for something to say. After far too long a pause, a feeble objection came to her. "I've got arthritic knees," she announced, triumphant.

Preston grinned. "You could afford ointment," he said, "if you made this rabble pay you properly."

"Rabble?" Vera repeated. Another step carried her closer, and oh, how her old feet suddenly longed for those familiar steps, being twirled around the cobblestone street... "Careful, dear. You forget that we live among them now."

"For a definition of living," Preston amended. He looked her up and down, from her greying hair swept up in an unkempt bun to the fraying seams of her skirt, and just from his gaze Vera would've thought herself the most exquisite beauty in all of Gristol. "Who's being contrary now?"

Vera inhaled the lingering smell of the flowers. It dizzied her, but not like her magic had done: this was a far sweeter rush. The music sounded even closer, carried right to her doorstep by that helpful breeze that'd been skittering around the alleys all evening. Her heart leaped.

Then, finally, her hand was in his. Her husband's grip closed around her fingers. He'd taken her left hand, the one with the wedding ring, and Vera felt its slight weight again like she'd never lost it in that alley.

Preston bowed to her, all proper, bent his head over her hand. He touched his lips to the flawless, smooth skin of her knuckles. "My lady wife," he said. The lamp light caught in his eyes as he smiled. "May I have this dance?"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first week of [The Month of Void 2016](http://carvedwhalebones-events.tumblr.com/month-of-void-about). I can't believe I managed to finish this in time! At first I set out to write nightmare fuel, but overall this fic has turned out a lot less creepy than I thought it would. itried.jpg
> 
> Technically, this is part of the pregnancy fic I've been mumbling about, but since I have no idea whether I'll ever write/finish that one, I wanted to at least indulge in my headcanon that Jessamine went to Granny Rags on the Fugue Feast before Emily's birth to find out if she was having a boy or a girl.


End file.
